


Hurt and Comfort in Bay City

by PenPatronusAooO



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Best Friends, Blood and Injury, Bromance, Captain Dobey - Freeform, David Starsky - Freeform, Detectives, Dobey - Freeform, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Hutch - Freeform, Ken Hutchinson - Freeform, PenPatronus, PenPatronusAooO, Police, Starsky - Freeform, Starsky and Hutch - Freeform, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-18 01:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenPatronusAooO/pseuds/PenPatronusAooO
Summary: An anthology of whump, hurt / comfort stories featuring the Starsky and Hutch bromance.1: Stryker kidnaps Starsky and plans to hang him from a meat hook. Will Hutch find him in time?2: Hutch wakes up after the events of "The Plague." Starsky is waiting for him!3: Hutch is furious when Gillian gets hurt under Starsky's watch. Someone else is hurt worse!STORY COMPLETE!





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending to "Snowstorm," s1. Stryker captures Starsky and intends to hang him from a meat hook

 

Hutch and Dobey sat in the captain’s office with the lights out. Only a narrow, lonely ray of sunlight peeked through the window shades. Both men had their elbows braced against their knees and Hutch had his face in his hands. “Somebody will call,” Dobey said for the fifth time in five minutes. He loosened his tie, hesitated, then ripped the whole thing off. “Someone will find Starsky, Hutch. Someone will.”

 

Hutch steepled his fingers and pressed his lips against them. “I was driving in the Torino today… _Alone_ in the Torino, and I got to thinking about what you said about… About your partner. About how they found him…” Hutch couldn’t finish the sentence. 

 

“How them found him hanging from a…” Dobey couldn’t finish his, either. “I lost my partner, Hutch, but you won’t lose yours. Not today.” Dobey blinked and said, without making eye contact, “I survived the worst day of my life and you would, too.”

 

Hutch shook his head slowly, like he was stretching his neck. The pale detective took a deep breath and whispered with shallow tears in his blue eyes, “I can’t find my partner hanging from a meat hook. I _can’t_. If I lose him, I’m done. I’m done in every way.”

 

“You don’t mean that.”

 

“I do. I really do. My badge will be on your desk before his b-body’s c-cold.” Hutch’s breath hitched and he coughed against his fist to hide a sob.

 

When the phone rang, they both dove and grabbed it at the same time. Dobey surrendered, and Hutch took the call. The police officer on the other end had the sense to say nothing more than an address.

 

\---------

 

Hutch waded between the meats on hooks like a fish through branches of seaweed. He used his gun to part the way when the corpses hung too close together. A whole squad of police followed behind him on tiptoe. The stink of the meat plant made Hutch’s eyes water: blood, sweat, bleach, chemicals, and a hint of fear. Stray body parts of cows and pigs squished beneath his boots.

 

Voices ahead. Hutch knelt in a pool of muddy blood and peeked. He counted four pairs of shoes, one the familiar blue and white. Those shoes hung from twisted ankles, and those ankles hung from limp legs. A rough voice shouted. One of the other shoes kicked, and the limp legs twitched slightly. Voice number two shouted louder, and Hutch nearly lost his lunch when he saw a trail of blood slide down familiar blue jeans to join the puddles on the floor.

 

Hutch stood. Wide-eyed men and women in uniform watched him for the signal. With two mute gestures he communicated that they should spread out and follow him, quietly. Two minutes later, when only three cow corpses stood between him and the blue shoes, Hutch shouted “Police! Freeze!” and bolted forward.

 

Dave Starsky’s wrists and hands were tied together with twine. He hung by them from an iron meat hook slathered in blood so thick it dripped down into his curly hair. Above Starsky’s left shoulder stood a man holding another hook in the air, intending to swing it down like a machete right into Starsky’s neck. The man took a bullet not in the leg, not in the shoulder, but right between the eyes, and the hook scuttled across the floor, harmless. A second man fired his gun at Hutch but hit a cow. A bullet nailed his shoulder and he went down, hard.

 

The click-crunch of a cocked third weapon. Hutch aimed at the sound, then froze. Stryker himself stood behind Starsky, his terrified, beady eyes peeking out from behind the detective’s neck, his own gun against his victim’s temple. “Drop it, Hutchinson!” Stryker bellowed. “Drop it and let me go—let me walk out of here a free man and, I swear, I’ll leave town and never come back again.” When Hutch didn’t blink, let alone obey, Stryker pushed the gun harder. “ ** _I’ll kill him_**!” Starsky groaned. Hutch’s entire chest ached at the sound.

 

Hutch sensed the slow movement behind Stryker but knew better than to actually look at it. “You listen to me,” he said, voice low and dangerous and desperate. “Step away from him now— _right now, Stryker_ —and you can take me.” Hutch gradually lowered his gun to the floor. He left it there. “Take me hostage. I’ll be your human shield. With me you can walk all the way home—”

 

It was Dobey. Dobey who succeeded in sneaking up on Stryker and putting a gun to his head the same way his pointed at Starsky. “One and only warning,” he growled. “Just flinch. Dare you. I won’t let you kill another friend of mine. You don’t mess with a man’s partner!”

 

Shaking, Stryker passed his weapon over to Dobey, then put his arms behind his back and allowed the captain to cuff him. Hutch darted forward to his partner as Dobey recited the Miranda Rights.

 

“Starsk,” Hutch hiccupped. “Starsky?” Hutch approached, ignoring the blood and mud splattered across his partner’s jeans, the rips in his jacket and navy shirt, and the sliced up swaths of skin. He summoned all of his upper body strength and lifted Starsky’s wrists up and over the hook, then over and around his own neck. Taking on all of the weight, Hutch softly lowered Starsky to the floor and slid his right thigh beneath his head as a pillow. Gently, he raised and then lowered his partner’s arms onto his stomach. The binds were tight and any visible skin beneath them was so bruised it looked black. Trembling fingers felt for and found the pulse in Starsky’s neck. The body twitched at the touch and both eyes rolled behind white eyelids. Hutch cupped his partner’s cheeks between both of his long, calloused hands. “Hey, partner,” he whispered. “Found you. Got you. I’m here.”

 

Starsky didn’t say his partner’s name so much as exhale it. “Hu…” he breathed. He frowned. He swallowed. Blood dribbled from a cut across his pale cheek. “Hutch, hurts…”

 

Hutch looked away—looked at everything but the cringe across his partner’s face. He took out his pocketknife to cut the binds but decided not to rely on his shaking hands. A faceless officer took the knife and freed Starsky’s wrists. Hutch braided his partner’s fingers together, wrapped his hands around them, and held them against his racing heart. “You’re safe now,” he whispered. “I’m here, Starsk. I’m here.”

 

Brilliant blue eyes blinked. Hutch felt Starsky’s entire body relax, then seize up again. “They were going to… Do you know what they were going to do to me?” Starsky whispered. “Oh, Hutch…”

 

“Come here.” Hutch lifted his partner up off the floor and into a tight bear hug. “I was so scared, Starsk. _So scared_.” Starsky trembled in his arms for a minute, then two more after. Five minutes passed before the pair released each other, and Starsky settled back down into Hutch’s lap, now curled up into a fetal position and clutching his best friend’s shirt as if for dear life. Hutch clasped the back of Starsky’s neck and massaged it, soothing, reminding him that he was there. Starsky dug his nose into the space above Hutch’s bellybutton and nested there.

 

Hutch had almost forgotten there was anybody else in the room. Dobey touched his shoulder and said that an ambulance was on its way. Hutch just nodded. Starsky, without opening his eyes, gave the captain a weak thumb’s up. Hutch touched his unruly hair, and then ran his fingers through it.

 

Before the paramedics separated them, Starsky—eyes all water—clasped Hutch’s arm and begged, “I want to go home.”

 

Hutch grasped his shoulders. “You will. After you get bandaged up I’ll drive you there myself.”

 

“No… I mean, I want to go to _your_ home. Stay there for a little. Stay with you.”

 

“Sure, Starsk, whatever you want. I’d come stay with you at your place, if that’d be more comfortable.”

 

“No.” Starsky managed a tiny smile. “In my fridge there’s too much… Meat. Going to be a while before I can look at a cow again, Hutch.”

 

It was that hint of humor that told Hutch everything was going to be ok.

 

**The End**


	2. Past the Plague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hutch wakes up in the hospital after the events of “The Plague.” Starsky is waiting for him.

Hutch had felt tired before but this—this was _beyond_ exhaustion. Opening his eyes felt like fighting quicksand in double gravity with anchors tied to every individual eyelash. He fought sleep for ages. He fought it with everything he had in him. Fought it because he somehow knew he wasn’t supposed to pass out again, and because he was curious. Someone was touching his wrist, and he was interested to find out who.

 

He wasn’t surprised it was Starsky. He _was_ surprised to see that Starsk had dragged another bed into the isolation room and set it up parallel with his. It enabled the detective to sleep, stretched out on his left side (still wearing his jacket and shoes) while still within arm’s reach of his partner—close enough to hold onto Hutch’s wrist like a lifeline. He slept soundly, mute, with his middle and forefinger pressed gently against Hutch’s pulse point.

 

Terror suddenly clogged Hutch’s throat and twisted his spine. Starsky was in the isolation room without a gown, without a mask, and touching Hutch’s sweaty bare skin. He was going to get sick, too! Die, too—

 

Relief followed just as fast. If the doctors and nurses allowed someone in the room with him, that could only mean one thing: Starsky found Callendar. Hutch was cured.

 

Hutch summoned all his strength, rotated his wrist, and pulled a few inches until his hand aligned with his partner’s. Hutch braided their fingers together, rested for a moment, then squeezed. Starsky stirred. Blue eyes blinked rapidly. He looked about as bad as Hutch felt, and Hutch wondered if his partner had gotten a single wink of sleep since the diagnosis.

 

“You’re awake?” Starsky whispered. Hutch rolled his eyes. A small smile graced white lips. “You’re awake!” Without letting go of Hutch’s hand, Starsky rolled to his feet, shoved the bed aside with his hip, and knelt on both knees beside his partner. “Look at you,” he gulped, “you look terrific!”

 

Hutch croaked, “Are you crying?” He stared at the water overflowing from his partner’s bloodshot eyes. “Starsk, you’re crying?”

 

“Am not,” Starsky said with a grin as he wiped his eyes dry. “Geeze, Hutch, it’s been a day since you got the serum and you still hadn’t woken up yet. _Geeze_.”

 

“Here I am,” Hutch whispered matter-of-factly. “You did it, didn’t you? You got Callendar. Starsk, you saved my life.”

 

Starsky’s smile couldn’t get any wider. “Gonna do something,” he said, “and if you give me grief about it I’ll never forgive you, ya hear? And if you tell anyone about it I’ll burn all your seaweed and mustard seeds and butterfly bones, got it?”

 

“Gonna do what?” Hutch sighed.

 

Starsky suddenly swooped in and planted a sloppy wet kiss on his partner’s pale cheek. “ _Nobody_ ,” he repeated after they shared a brief laugh.

 

“Promise,” Hutch chuckled softly. He swallowed, and the needles lining his throat softened the tiniest bit.

 

Something passed over Starsky’s face like a cloud across the sun. “It was close, Hutch,” he admitted. He looked down at their clasped hands and rubbed his partner’s cold forefinger with his calloused thumb. “God, it was close.”

 

Hutch squeezed Starsky’s hand.

 

“You were struggling to breathe but fighting so hard. So damn hard. Proud of you,” Starsky said, and his throat closed up around the last syllable. “So proud of you.”

 

Liquid filled Hutch’s eyes. “Wouldn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter a damn bit if you hadn’t done what you did. You saved me, partner.” His eyes overflowed but he had no strength to mop up his own cheeks. And he realized, not for the first time (although it felt like it), “You always save me…”

 

Starsky sniffed. He used his sleeve to wipe away Hutch’s tears. “You’ve saved me,” he whispered, “and I don’t just mean my life, buddy. In every way that a man can be saved, that’s what you’ve done for me.” Starsky used the same sleeve to wipe his own nose. “You know what you mean to me, don’t you, partner? You know what you mean to me?”

 

Hutch smiled. “Love you, too,” he said.

 

The nurses interrupted, then. Doctors flooded in. Starsky reluctantly left his partner’s side and retreated into a corner where he watched, guarding.

 

**The End**


	3. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hutch is furious when Gillian gets hurt under Starsky’s watch.

Hutch entered the emergency room like a storm front: an ominous, marching darkness prepared to unleash fury. He recognized the fading leather jacket from behind. Starsky stood beside the bed with his arms crossed and his head cocked to the left. Sitting on the bed was Gillian, and a stern-faced doctor was busy bandaging her bleeding arm. The sight of the blood released Hutch’s anger and before he thought about it he found himself grabbing his partner from behind and slamming him against the wall so hard that his skull bounced off the bricks.

“I trusted you to protect her!” Hutch bellowed. “You can’t keep her safe from one lousy mugger?” He pointed at his wounded girlfriend’s injury and shouted, “Look at that!”

“Ken!” Gillian cried. “For God’s sake—it’s just a little cut!

“Geeze, buddy!” Starsky rubbed the back of his head. “Turkey snuck up on us!”

“How could you let that happen?” Hutch braced his palm against Starsky’s chest and added more pressure as he spoke. “You’re a cop, aren’t you? You’re my friend, aren’t you? God, how far of a walk was it from her doorstep to the Torino? You couldn’t keep her safe for a few seconds? Keep her safe for _me_?”

“Ken, calm down!” said Gillian. “I’m all right! It’s not like I had my life savings in that purse.”

 “That’s not the point.” His expression softened when he looked into her eyes. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I should’ve been there.”

“Starsky pushed me aside when the guy came at us with that knife. They wrestled, he tried to chase him down… What would you have done any differently?” Gillian wondered.

Starsky wrapped both of his hands around the wrist holding him against the wall. “Buddy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Hutch.”

“I don’t give a damn that you’re sorry!” He wagged his forefinger in front of his partner’s face. “I won’t forgive you for this. She could’ve been stabbed—she could’ve been killed!”

Starsky swayed on his feet. He grabbed onto Hutch’s jacket, and muttered, “Think I need to sit…”

“You can stand outside.” It was an order from Hutch. “In fact, just get out of here, _David_.” Hutch swatted his partner’s hand aside and released his chest. “You’re buying us dinner when she feels better!”

“I’ll buy anything,” Starsky mumbled, “anything you want. New purse. I’ll replace that dress. I’ll do anything, Gillian. I’m sorry…” A drop of sweat dripped from Starsky’s forehead and landed on his shoe. “Hot in here, isn’t it?”

Gillian noticed it first. “David? David, are you feeling all right?”

“Just gotta…” Starsky unzipped his jacket, shrugged out of it with a grimace, and let it fall to the hospital floor. His voice sounded like anvils hung from his tongue. “Gotta sit… Just for a m-minute…”

Gillian saw the wound first. Her nails dug into Hutch’s arm when she grabbed his arm. “ _Ken_!”

All of Hutch, except for his wide, searching eyes, froze. Like long fingernail scratches, five streams of blood dripped down Starsky’s beige button-down shirt from a stab wound just above and to the right of his bellybutton. Hutch was so shocked that he just stood there, face white, when Starsky suddenly collapsed back against the wall and slid down it with one leg folded under the other. Limp hands lay, palms up, on the ground. And then Starsky started to teeter to his left.

“ ** _Starsk_**!” Hutch dove forward and caught his friend by the shoulders. “Starsky, you’re—you’re hurt! Why didn’t you tell me you’re hurt?”

Starsky’s words slurred together. “Was going to mention it when Gillian got patched up and you s-stopped y-yelling.” He looked down at his stomach and his eyes widened when he saw the wound for the first time. “Geeze. Looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?”

Hutch shouted for a doctor. Gillian kept shouting for one when he returned his attention back to his partner. Starsky smiled a bit when Hutch dragged his trembling hand down his cheek. “Oh, God,” Hutch whispered, remembering his words. “God, Starsk, you—that mugger—you did protect her and I said those horrible things—Starsky, I’m so sorry.”

“Everybody’s sorry,” Starsky chuckled. “I’m sorry because I think… Think I’m going to pass out, Hutch…”

“No, don’t!” Hutch barked. Tears sprung to his eyes and hovered there. He shook Starsky’s shoulders to startle his eyes back open. Then, so very gently, so very focused on not jogging his partner’s injury, Hutch lifted Starsky up into a bridal carry and deposited him on the nearest empty bed. Faceless doctors and nurses ran to and from them. Bandages and needles and wires and cords descended on Starsky like they were attacking him. He didn’t notice. Hutch didn’t, either. The pair just looked at each other, saying everything they needed to in complete silence. Hutch only left his partner’s side when two rough doctors and one very gentle girlfriend tugged him away.

 

**12 HOURS LATER**

 

Hutch wore Starsky’s jacket because it was cold in the hospital waiting room. At least, that’s what he told himself. It probably had more to do with the tiny air of leftover heat from Starsky’s body, the familiar scent of him, and the splatters of blood coating the inside. Hutch didn’t care that the blood was getting on his clothes. He wanted it there—wanted the reminder that his friend had nearly died for Gillian. Starsky almost died, and Hutch had doubted he’d done his best to protect his girl.

Hutch hated himself for that.

When a doctor finally emerged, he said that Starsky had asked for Hutch, and Hutch only, to visit him. So, Hutch left Gillian, Dobey, Starsky’s latest girlfriend, and Huggy behind and tiptoed into the dark hospital room. The only light came through a single bent shade across the one window.

Starsky’s corpse-colored face looked extra ghostly. He was asleep, as far as Hutch could tell. He lay on his side with his back to the door, arm across his hip just above—protectively above—his bandaged abdomen. Hutch picked up a heavy chair and set it down at Starsky’s side, lined up so that they would be face-to-face when he woke up.

Hutch had just settled down into his seat when a faint voice whispered, “Hey, that’s mine.”

Hutch tried to summon a relieved, confident smile, but all he had in him was a sad one. “Hey.” He shrugged off the leather jacket, folded it gently, and slid it under Starsky’s arm. “I was just keeping it warm for you.”

A pink tongue licked white lips. “Looks good on you. Maybe I’ll let you borrow it sometime.”

“You know it’s not exactly my style.”

“How come nothing of mine is your style?”

Hutch almost said “ _you’re_ my style.” It made sense in his head but he knew it wouldn’t if it came out of his mouth. So instead, he leaned over, put his palm on the bed and his chin on his hand, then gripped the back of his partner’s neck with the same amount of force he would use to pluck a wildflower. “How are you feeling?”

“Been thinking…” Starsky’s eyes were only half open. He seemed unable to open them all the way. “Didn’t get a chance to report what the mugger looked like. White male. 40-45. Red shoes with black shoelaces on his left foot—white laces on his right.”

Hutch winced when he realized how Starsky got such a good look at the shoes: he was probably hunched over at the time, folded in half with a knife in his guts. “Starsk, don’t think about that right now. Just think about getting better.”

“But it’s important. We gotta nail that turkey for what he put your girl through.”

Hutch winced again. His guts hurt as if someone had stuck a knife in him instead of his partner. Brief nausea wafted through Hutch’s body like a huff of warm air. Just the thought of a sharp blade tearing up his partner’s insides made him sick…

“Hutch?”

Hutch had been quiet for a second too long. Starsky’s eyebrows were drawn tight with concern. “Yeah, partner?”

“You good? You ok?”

A hot snort from Hutch. “Don’t you ever ask me that again when you’re the one in a hospital bed,” he snarled.

Starsky recoiled. Hutch got the impression that he was remembering his partner’s harsh words from earlier. He’d screamed while Starsky bled…

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not. And—I want you to know something,” Hutch suddenly whispered far more frantically than he intended, “I know that skull of yours is thick, and I know you’re drugged up, but I need you to understand.”

Starsky wiggled a hand forward and grasped Hutch’s. He nodded.

“If I lost Gillian…” Hutch’s mouth went dry. He swallowed twice. “If I lost Gillian I would be devastated. But if I lost you, I—there’s no word for what I’d feel, Starsk. I can’t even describe it hypothetically. It’s a fire too painful to go near. You’re my _brother_. Women in my life come and go—for better or for worse, but you—you’re irreplaceable.”

Starsky smiled. He kept smiling until every tooth showed. “Forgive me then, do you?”

One short, wet laugh from Hutch. “Nothing to forgive.” He patted Starsky’s hand. “Brother.”

Starsky’s eyebrows rose. “We haven’t used that word yet. I like it.” He squeezed Hutch’s hand in return. “Brother… That doesn’t feel like enough of a description either, does it?”

“It’ll have to do.”

**  
The End**

 


End file.
